The Songs of Slaying
by junegloom
Summary: For once, the Lady of Ithilien is left behind, and here is only Eowyn of Rohan.


Darkness had settled over Emyn Arnen for another night, and the air was cool and calm except for the rustling of the drying, brown and golden leaves fallen from the trees. The Prince's house had put out its lights for the night, and its facade was an impressive stone palace reflecting in the moonlight, the shadows of the trees cast upon it. It was in this blue moonlight that a tall figure with long, light hair took firm, crunching steps through the trees towards her destination, pulling the hood of her dark cloak up over her head.

She walked confidently, as though these woods belonged to her. And, she thought, they _did _as far as anyone was concerned. Prince Faramir had made it clearly well-known that she was as much an authority as he in this land, and she had walked these woods many times in the years since she had married him. But tonight, with her family and household in their beds, the lady of Emyn Arnen had been left behind, and here was only Eowyn of Rohan.

The walk was long, and just as she was beginning to grow weary, she came upon what she was looking for, an inn on the outskirts of Emyn Arnen, frequented by wanderers, rangers, and soldiers alike. Here no one would notice one more hooded face or one more pair of leather boots. For once, no one stood as she entered the room, no one hurried in front of her to open the heavy, creaking, chipped door for her, and no one addressed her as "my lady" as they took her coins in exchange for a heavy tankard of strong ale. She doubted that anyone recognized her, but if they did, they said nothing. She sipped her drink for a moment before remembering that she need not stand on ceremony here, and gulped it down as she pleased, slaking her thirst after her long walk.

She closed her eyes and took in the scent of sweat and travel and of leather and horse and of smoke and ale. Some of the men were singing a hard and rough tune of victory and valor, and some thumped drums so loudly that the rhythm resonated along within Eowyn's chest. In the clamor of the room, she could hardly hear herself drinking. Here was what she had come for. _The songs of slaying_. She sighed and sunk deeper into her seat, putting her feet out in front of her, reveling in the freedom her husband's clothes afforded her.

Faramir had asked her once, many years ago when he was first trying to coax her into speech, if she enjoyed music. She had not known quite how to answer him, for she knew that what he meant by music and what she meant were probably very different things, and in any case it had not been the time for such things. He was a man of Gondor, and music to him was the light and lilting, bird-like notes of a flute, or the clear voice of a singer singing of the grand tales of old. Eowyn had come to know these well, as Faramir was a great lover of music and had even seen to it that Elboron would learn at least a song or two on every instrument the boy could pick up. Under his Stewardship, the city of Minas Tirith had become a place filled with the kind of enchanting melodies he-and indeed most of Gondor, it seemed- loved, and in due course it overflowed into Ithilien as well.

It was not that Eowyn didn't enjoy or could not appreciate these kinds of gentle melodies. They were pleasant enough, and when she made her choice to wed Faramir, she vowed to him and to herself that she would take joy in all that was uplifting from then until the end of her days. She had kept her promise, had done her best to put aside the shieldmaiden she had been, became the Lady of Emyn Arnen, and a mother to the next Prince. She did not shun music which was bright and joyous. But she loved it because she had chosen to love it, and she could not lie to herself- it rarely moved her heart. When she had told Faramir that she enjoyed music, she meant a different thing entirely. And, as with everything, he had seemed to understand- still understood, or surely she could not be where she was now. There were few lords she could have married, she was sure, that would allow her to roam alone at night as she was doing, and without a guard no less.

Song flowed into song, one after another, stories of blood shed and battles won, and stories of enemies slain and friends lost. The drums and the men's voices...If she closed her eyes, she could almost be back in Edoras, a girl sneaking back into the feasts at Meduseld late at night after she and Eomer had been sent to bed. Once they had run into each other while scurrying through the dark, evading their nurse. Eomer had raised his finger to his lips and smiled, and they had each continued on their way. The hardest part was sneaking out of her room and away from her dry-nurse, who seemed to be the only person who cared if she stayed in bed. Once she was in the midst of the feast, with the singing and the golden light of the torches and the ale flowing, she was always welcomed. Even her uncle would wink and turn his head when he saw her, a king's silent permission. The music and warmth of the room as the men sang had felt like a wool cloak around her, keeping her warm and alive. She had had these sorts of songs branded into her heart from her girlhood.

Life was so different now, still so foreign sometimes. Nearly ten years she had lived in Ithilien, and she still so often felt like an outsider, a Northern oddity, especially when the occasion called for them to be in Minas Tirith. Her life was peaceful, and beautiful, and full of light and love, and she knew she could not ask for very much more. She was the wife of the second highest-ranking lord in Gondor, her children were of a noble and proud line, she had gardens and all she did was life-giving and fruitful, and she wanted for nothing. Her husband was, as he had ever been, the most understanding and benevolent man she had ever known, and she loved him and lived in gratitude of the life he had offered to her in her darkest hour, when she thought all hope was lost. But there were no thumping drums in his people's music, and the songs were of beauty and chaste love, not battle and bodies.

A particularly ribald song was followed by hearty laughter, and when it died down, shouts and fists on the tables called for another. This time a man stood up alone, steadying himself on a chair, his tunic askew. This song was sung as heartily, but did not elicit the laughter and joining in that the others had. Eowyn looked up from her ale, paying attention to the words he sang for the first time. She bit her lip as she heard.

_O wine comes in at the mouth  
And love comes in at the eye  
I lift my glass to my mouth  
I look at you and I sigh  
_  
She sighed to herself. _Faramir._ He would be asleep by now. Had he left the window in their room open? He was so naturally warm-bodied and it was so cool outside. It might be freezing in there by the time she got home. _Home_. When she had left, he had kissed her goodbye and held her shoulders in front of him, looking her in the eyes and making her promise- no, she thought, _asking _her to promise- not to be too late. How long had she been listening to these songs? Was her husband holding her pillow alone, naked in their bed without her?

Amidst the noise, she stood up, unwavering, and left a handful of coins on the table before slipping away back into the dark night. As she walked back through the trees, the sounds of the life she had left behind faded away, and the sounds of owls and insects took their place.  
The leaves crunched beneath her feet, and the returning walk seemed longer than she remembered it, until she reached the door of the house and slipped inside as quietly as she could.

She did not bother to plait her hair, nor to do anything but remove her husband's clothes from herself and leave them where they lay on the floor, before she slipped into bed with him, their white sheets covering her cold, aching legs. She leaned over and kissed him lightly, and Faramir mumbled sleepily and pulled her closer to him. She dropped kisses on his cheeks, then his chin, then trailed down to his throat while his hands began to wander over her. She smiled and pressed herself into him. He was as warm as she had hoped he would be.

A night among rangers and warriors listening to the old songs was a pleasure to be sure. But there were many things besides to take joy in.

\- - -

Thank you all for the kind reviews. I just wanted to add that the song lyrics that remind our Lady of Ithilien that she has a (likely naked) husband waiting for her at home is by The Tossers, a song called "A Fine Lass You Are." It's available on Spotify and on their album On a Fine Spring Morning if you'd like to listen.


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